Sorry, it doesn't look good for ol' bloggy today. I'm in a period of mourning over a series of deceased ideas from the past week.
But since you're already here (and are clearly looking for something to do) guess what? You can vote for me! Mosey your eyeballs over to the right there, and click on either one of those "Nominated for" icons. You've gotta create a profile to do it, which is horrendous, I know, but also totally harmless.
Also, to prove to you that I have not gone completely lazy, I will give you a preview of what is to come for the rest of the week.
Thursday: Why April Fool's Day Is The Worst
Friday: The Greatest As I Recall Ever Told
Now celebrate the lovely weather, you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
I Hate Quentin Tarantino.
There. I said it. And now you're just going to have to deal with it.
Hating Quentin Tarantino now puts my list of Things I Hate That Everyone Else Loves up to three. We all have our own lists. Adrienne hates peppers.
My own list:
1. Sushi
2. Johnny Depp
3. Quentin Tarantino
Here's the thing: I don't have a good reason to hate Johnny Depp. More, my feelings are really those of indifference. But it's the fact that everyone else wants to make out with the boy so furiously that makes me hate him so.
But my hatred for Quentin is true, and it is deep. I came to my realization about QT only Saturday night after having watched Pulp Fiction for the first time (Joe is catching me up on my list of Guy Movies It's Weird I've Never Seen. And, yes, Kill Bill is also still on that list.) After watching Pulp Fiction, Joe and Monica started expounding on what is supposed to be in the briefcase, and it might be the one guy's soul, and such-and-such is supposed to be God and that part's Heaven, and this guy's an angel and blah blah whatever.
I didn't want to hear it. And not because I don't think movies can have deeper meanings. PLEASE. I took film classes in college. I know what's up. But I just. Hate. Quentin. Tarantino. And I don't think that he had a deeper level of meaning. I think he just made the briefcase mysterious because he likes to mess with people's minds. Done.
Here is why I hate Quentin Tarantino:
1) The permanent snarl. I want you all to look through this series of pictures and then not punch the person next to you in the face.
It's like a mix between "Someone at the gym farted but it wasn't me so I'm going to make it obvious that I find that smell repulsive" and the look people give in movies when the Asshole says something funny-but-mean so the hero smiles ironically for a second and then roundhouses them in the face.
2) The snark. Now, I know as the Queen of Snark I shouldn't be upset by this, but you guys have to watch this.
How does this man not make you grit your teeth? Specifically, listen at about 1:20 (try not to get distracted by Jeff Bridges' majesty like I did) when the interviewer is all "everyone wants to work with you" and Quentin Tarantino's response is, "Oh really, bitch?! I hadn't noticed that people think I'm great. Why don't you get out of my FACE." Also, REALLY you DJed an Oscars pre-party? YEAH? REALLY?
I will cut you.
3) His general douchey/dude-bro/entitled attitude. I mean, come on! He acts like a Cubs fan at the Cubby Bear after a win! Isn't that enough for you people? Was Kill Bill realllllly that amazing that you're willing to just forgive the man for being LIKE A CUBS FAN AT THE CUBBY BEAR AFTER A WIN?
Well? ARE YOU?
Hating Quentin Tarantino now puts my list of Things I Hate That Everyone Else Loves up to three. We all have our own lists. Adrienne hates peppers.
My own list:
1. Sushi
2. Johnny Depp
3. Quentin Tarantino
Here's the thing: I don't have a good reason to hate Johnny Depp. More, my feelings are really those of indifference. But it's the fact that everyone else wants to make out with the boy so furiously that makes me hate him so.
But my hatred for Quentin is true, and it is deep. I came to my realization about QT only Saturday night after having watched Pulp Fiction for the first time (Joe is catching me up on my list of Guy Movies It's Weird I've Never Seen. And, yes, Kill Bill is also still on that list.) After watching Pulp Fiction, Joe and Monica started expounding on what is supposed to be in the briefcase, and it might be the one guy's soul, and such-and-such is supposed to be God and that part's Heaven, and this guy's an angel and blah blah whatever.
I didn't want to hear it. And not because I don't think movies can have deeper meanings. PLEASE. I took film classes in college. I know what's up. But I just. Hate. Quentin. Tarantino. And I don't think that he had a deeper level of meaning. I think he just made the briefcase mysterious because he likes to mess with people's minds. Done.
Here is why I hate Quentin Tarantino:
1) The permanent snarl. I want you all to look through this series of pictures and then not punch the person next to you in the face.
It's like a mix between "Someone at the gym farted but it wasn't me so I'm going to make it obvious that I find that smell repulsive" and the look people give in movies when the Asshole says something funny-but-mean so the hero smiles ironically for a second and then roundhouses them in the face.
2) The snark. Now, I know as the Queen of Snark I shouldn't be upset by this, but you guys have to watch this.
How does this man not make you grit your teeth? Specifically, listen at about 1:20 (try not to get distracted by Jeff Bridges' majesty like I did) when the interviewer is all "everyone wants to work with you" and Quentin Tarantino's response is, "Oh really, bitch?! I hadn't noticed that people think I'm great. Why don't you get out of my FACE." Also, REALLY you DJed an Oscars pre-party? YEAH? REALLY?
I will cut you.
3) His general douchey/dude-bro/entitled attitude. I mean, come on! He acts like a Cubs fan at the Cubby Bear after a win! Isn't that enough for you people? Was Kill Bill realllllly that amazing that you're willing to just forgive the man for being LIKE A CUBS FAN AT THE CUBBY BEAR AFTER A WIN?
Well? ARE YOU?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Shamlessly Promoting a Motion for Promotion
So you may have noticed a slight change to the bloggy blog--there are now two little pictures off to the right where you can vote for me.
You guys know I'm not about self promotion. And you probably also know that I in no way would win for Best Humor Blog LET ALONE Best Religious Blog. But can it hurt to try? The answer is no. No it cannot.
Especially because if I can get my blog up there in numbers, I can get more readers, and we all know that I am a middle child whose only desire is for people to listen to me rant and rave about the blessings and injustices brought upon me.
Plus, who DOESN'T want to read Bible stories with light swearing?
So if you guys enjoy the blog and want to encourage me in giving you a reason to take a study break, or distract you from work, or distract ME from work (Hmm? Huh? What?) I would love it if you'd look on over to the right there and click on either one of those. You've gotta sign up in order to vote (LAAAAME) but I did it--and I am not the kind of person who signs up for things willy nilly. So take a deep breath, make up a password, and show me some love.
OR NO DANIEL AND THE LION'S DEN FOR YOU!!!!
(Just in case empty threats work.)
You guys know I'm not about self promotion. And you probably also know that I in no way would win for Best Humor Blog LET ALONE Best Religious Blog. But can it hurt to try? The answer is no. No it cannot.
Especially because if I can get my blog up there in numbers, I can get more readers, and we all know that I am a middle child whose only desire is for people to listen to me rant and rave about the blessings and injustices brought upon me.
Plus, who DOESN'T want to read Bible stories with light swearing?
So if you guys enjoy the blog and want to encourage me in giving you a reason to take a study break, or distract you from work, or distract ME from work (Hmm? Huh? What?) I would love it if you'd look on over to the right there and click on either one of those. You've gotta sign up in order to vote (LAAAAME) but I did it--and I am not the kind of person who signs up for things willy nilly. So take a deep breath, make up a password, and show me some love.
OR NO DANIEL AND THE LION'S DEN FOR YOU!!!!
(Just in case empty threats work.)
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Why Vice President Biden Needs To Be My Grandpa
Okay. Breathing again. I came in early to work yesterday, posted that blog, then wrote up a kick-ass script. I then proceeded to not be able to top it for 8 hours, and as of this moment it is still alive. But I definitely had a good 12 hours of freak out-ery.
Now, this morning when I came in, as I awaited my peppermint latte (Hooray! Someone who doesn’t think “mint” is a Christmas flavor!!) my eye caught a sub-line…byline? The Line That’s Not A Headline?...anyway, and it informed me that Vice President Biden dropped an f-bomb recently when he thought the mic wouldn’t pick it up.
And I just want to say, God bless America, and God bless Joseph R. Biden.
This is not a political blog. Nor do I ever—EVER—want it to become one. I do not want to talk about Biden’s beliefs. I do not want to talk about ANYONE’S beliefs. Mostly because I think all people of the world fall into two camps:
1. They don’t know enough about what they’re talking about to actually have a proper opinion.
2. They do know enough. So now they're lying.
I’m going to go right ahead and assume that I, and everyone else who reads this blog (and let's be honest, probably Joe Biden,) falls into the #1 camp. Except all those CIA agents who are reading me to make sure I don’t spill the beans on Code Chicken Feather—I’VE SAID TOO MUCH!!!
What I mean to say is, politics aside, Joe Biden cracks my shit up. And I wish to the high heavens that he was my grandpa. IN FACT…
WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, JOE!
REVISED ADOPTED FAMILY LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou
Grandpa Joe Biden
Man, I really hope no other old men weasel their way into my heart, because I have no grandpa spots left.
Here’s the thing. My own grandfathers were a little MIA in my life. One of them passed away years before I was born (Although I do have a hilarious picture of him demonstrating how to wear a bridle for my mom’s stubborn horse. Damn him and his love of cigarettes.) And the other one was…quiet. He was a good guy, sure. But he was pretty solitary. In fact, I only have one memory of him saying something to me:
Katie and I were young, about 5 and 8. We were visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, and playing in their backyard as the sun went down. It was that time of year when the caterpillars were out. Whatever time of year that is. And Katie and I were having a field day finding them. We started collecting those orange and black fuzzy ones (the ones that I now know turn into moths. But at the time, I’m not sure I knew they turned into anything.) We put them all onto the underside of a Frisbee and ran around the yard yelling, “I found one here! Mom, look! Another one!” and then sprinted back to add it proudly to the collection. When we’d collected enough to practically cover the Frisbee, we bounced over to our grandpa. “Poppa! Look how many we got!”
Poppa scrutinized the Frisbee. He rubbed his chin. Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see that.” We proudly handed it over.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
My grandfather smashed the Frisbee against a tree over and over, euthanizing every one of our precious, fuzzy caterpillars. Katie and I stared, mouths gaping, horrified at the malicious injustice before us.
I ran back to my mom who tried to calm me, telling me they were just moths; Poppa just didn’t want all those moths in his yard. I suppose I forgave him, I don’t really remember. But “Let me see that” is the only sentence I remember him saying directly to me (though I’m sure there are more.) And that has to say something for forgiveness.
This entire story to tell you…I need a Grandpa Biden in my life. I need the kind of grandpa who’ll hitch up his pants, squint one eye, and tell you it’s those damn gays who planted the dinosaur bones. Not that Biden would say those things (although, with a mental deterioration that rivals Flowers for Algernon, you really never know.)
I need a Grandpa who took public transportation uphill both ways. I need a Grandpa who understands the importance of a good fart joke. I need a Grandpa who thinks “fucking” is a verb AND an adjective.
I need a Grandpa Biden. AND. HOW.
Now, this morning when I came in, as I awaited my peppermint latte (Hooray! Someone who doesn’t think “mint” is a Christmas flavor!!) my eye caught a sub-line…byline? The Line That’s Not A Headline?...anyway, and it informed me that Vice President Biden dropped an f-bomb recently when he thought the mic wouldn’t pick it up.
And I just want to say, God bless America, and God bless Joseph R. Biden.
This is not a political blog. Nor do I ever—EVER—want it to become one. I do not want to talk about Biden’s beliefs. I do not want to talk about ANYONE’S beliefs. Mostly because I think all people of the world fall into two camps:
1. They don’t know enough about what they’re talking about to actually have a proper opinion.
2. They do know enough. So now they're lying.
I’m going to go right ahead and assume that I, and everyone else who reads this blog (and let's be honest, probably Joe Biden,) falls into the #1 camp. Except all those CIA agents who are reading me to make sure I don’t spill the beans on Code Chicken Feather—I’VE SAID TOO MUCH!!!
What I mean to say is, politics aside, Joe Biden cracks my shit up. And I wish to the high heavens that he was my grandpa. IN FACT…
WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, JOE!
REVISED ADOPTED FAMILY LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou
Grandpa Joe Biden
Man, I really hope no other old men weasel their way into my heart, because I have no grandpa spots left.
Here’s the thing. My own grandfathers were a little MIA in my life. One of them passed away years before I was born (Although I do have a hilarious picture of him demonstrating how to wear a bridle for my mom’s stubborn horse. Damn him and his love of cigarettes.) And the other one was…quiet. He was a good guy, sure. But he was pretty solitary. In fact, I only have one memory of him saying something to me:
Katie and I were young, about 5 and 8. We were visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, and playing in their backyard as the sun went down. It was that time of year when the caterpillars were out. Whatever time of year that is. And Katie and I were having a field day finding them. We started collecting those orange and black fuzzy ones (the ones that I now know turn into moths. But at the time, I’m not sure I knew they turned into anything.) We put them all onto the underside of a Frisbee and ran around the yard yelling, “I found one here! Mom, look! Another one!” and then sprinted back to add it proudly to the collection. When we’d collected enough to practically cover the Frisbee, we bounced over to our grandpa. “Poppa! Look how many we got!”
Poppa scrutinized the Frisbee. He rubbed his chin. Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see that.” We proudly handed it over.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
My grandfather smashed the Frisbee against a tree over and over, euthanizing every one of our precious, fuzzy caterpillars. Katie and I stared, mouths gaping, horrified at the malicious injustice before us.
I ran back to my mom who tried to calm me, telling me they were just moths; Poppa just didn’t want all those moths in his yard. I suppose I forgave him, I don’t really remember. But “Let me see that” is the only sentence I remember him saying directly to me (though I’m sure there are more.) And that has to say something for forgiveness.
This entire story to tell you…I need a Grandpa Biden in my life. I need the kind of grandpa who’ll hitch up his pants, squint one eye, and tell you it’s those damn gays who planted the dinosaur bones. Not that Biden would say those things (although, with a mental deterioration that rivals Flowers for Algernon, you really never know.)
I need a Grandpa who took public transportation uphill both ways. I need a Grandpa who understands the importance of a good fart joke. I need a Grandpa who thinks “fucking” is a verb AND an adjective.
I need a Grandpa Biden. AND. HOW.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
WORDS THERE ARE NO WORDS
BAH! Why can't I function when real things happen in my life?!
Okay prepare yourselves because this post is about to make you wonder if you speak English. And if you don't speak English, well...you're screwed.
I started freelancing at a place and it's great and it's what I want and it's only for a few weeks which means I have a few days to prove myself and if I can't then I probably am back to unemployment.
SO. Yesterday after spending all my time actually working and not just checking my email (seriously) we finally had a big meeting at the end of the day and I was told that I was not quirky/witty/tongue-in-cheek enough.
ME.
ME.
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Life, over. I need to rethink my priorities. I need to rethink my...everything. Words...there are no words anymore. Only...ellipses.
If you are wondering, YES. This is my post for the day. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME
Okay prepare yourselves because this post is about to make you wonder if you speak English. And if you don't speak English, well...you're screwed.
I started freelancing at a place and it's great and it's what I want and it's only for a few weeks which means I have a few days to prove myself and if I can't then I probably am back to unemployment.
SO. Yesterday after spending all my time actually working and not just checking my email (seriously) we finally had a big meeting at the end of the day and I was told that I was not quirky/witty/tongue-in-cheek enough.
ME.
ME.
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Life, over. I need to rethink my priorities. I need to rethink my...everything. Words...there are no words anymore. Only...ellipses.
If you are wondering, YES. This is my post for the day. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME
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